"Just a thing about Umbrian painters."
"Come here and tell me about it... You never tell me anything about your work any more."
Fanshaw moved to the window ledge beside her chair and stared out into the garden.
"Mother," he said, without looking in her face, "what would you say if I were to marry some day?"
"But then we couldn't go abroad this summer, could we, dear?"
"I'm afraid we aren't going to be able to do that anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I'm afraid you won't be quite strong enough, dear."
"How ridiculous, Fanshaw. Of course I'll be well in a couple of months. How long is it now since Dr. Nickerson said I'd be well in a couple of months?"
"It's nearly a year, Mother dear. Of course he did not say that definitely ..."